Reader Tom writes in with the following pic:

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Was driving the other day and came across this car…first I was lost for words, then I had to chase it down over 4 lanes of traffic for 1km to take a pic.

is there such a thing as a douchemobile?

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Yes. Yes there is.

Although your pic is like playing Grand Douche Auto. Where's my gatt and 40 kilos?

So, hung over from a night of excess, I ponder my sunday morning. Coffee? Perhaps. A tasty bowl of Cocoa Puffs? Of course.

A rank frost tipped aging club-choad Piscopo with two pieces of arm candy?

Now I'm awake.

Mmm... they are lovely. If they could only lose the 'bag of goiter, I would share my Cocoa Puffs with them. But not too much. Because I'm running low.

Yeesh. I think I blocked this travesty from my subconscious for the last fifteen years.

Definitely ahead of their time douchebaggery for these muscle ass-clowns.

PIC DELETED

Your humble narrator on all things hottie/douchey, The DB1, was interviewed and named "Internet Hero of the Week" on Richmond's Y101 last week. I may sound a little tired as the interview was done at 5:30 in the morning my-time, but checkitout.

And since I didn't have a picture to run with this plug, here's a sexy angular hottie with a tub of discount generic choad.

I remember in 5th grade world history we learned all about how early nomadic cavemen and Neanderthals were the first to use primitive tools to build huts and cut down trees.

But my question is this. How exactly does one use a Primitive Tool like the one pictured here to do anything? I can't even see lifting him in the air for any length of time, let alone using him to cut down a tree.

Performative douchewank? Or gatt busting homie who will hunt me down, pop a cap in my ass, then eat all my cheerios and leave the fridge door open?

Depending on which way you vote, I've provided two alternative commentaries:

A. (performative douchewank) Nice mandana the size of a Buick, tighty-whitey muscle t and douche-bracelet there, Tex. Did the razor get repo'd in mid shave because you forgot to make the payments?

B. (actual gangsta) You are a scholar a gentleman, a benevolent and magnanimous contributor to humanity, kind sir. Thank you for coming to the Pomona fairgrounds, and here's a free Orange Julius. Please do not pop a cap in my proverbial ass.

Well, douchewank or gangsta, I do know this.

I would love the silver belt buckle and the meaty arm I'd nibble tiny tooth crop circles into that would direct traffic for the alien landings.

Fish Slap wanted to come by and remind us that even if we have a 'bag free and hottie filled weekend, he's out there. Which should be enough to fire you up and send you out for the weekend with extra motivation.

Just knowing this guy is out there greasing on the hotties should be enough to tinge tonight's alcohol binge with the slightest hint of melancholy.

He's a choad. But that's why I'm here. To mock his ass. And so it's Friday Night. The 'bags have been mocked. The hotties lusted after.

Good night moon. Good night douche by the light of the moon.

Hello boobies.

I gotta give it up to Puka Shell Paulie.

Not only does he feature a chin of cartoonish surrealism, a vague aura of gender ambiguity, and the best peach fuzz mustache this side of a class of 7th graders in Osaka, but he's completely oblivious to the Loopy Hotts to his left.

Don't look now, Puka Shell, but the show is behind you.

Aw, isn't that sweet.

Taking care of her "special" friend so infested with douche virus that he's dribbling little Griecos onto his chin.

You're doing your part for humanity, sweetie. The world thanks you.

See? He loves you, sweetie.

I want to get away... I want to smack these douchebags... away... yeah... yeah... yeah...

The ladies may not overwhelm like yesterday's Yellow (although Saki Hottie's got a great smile), but there was no way I was passing up on posting the Twin Kravitz 'Bags.

They're like a McDonalds double cheeseburger of cheese. The pink shirt that keeps on scroting. But it's the matching 'bag hand gestures that put the Twin Kravitzs over the top.

And thanks for that glimpse of upper groin there, Kravitzes #1 and #2. I needed that like a flyswatter to the face.

I've got a headache this big!

And it's got four club-soda choadbags written all over it.

This is like one of those wacky gangs of friends who solve crimes. No, not Scooby Doo. Different.

I'm talking The Bloodhound Gang. If you replaced clever kids who solve crimes using their smarts with douched up rayon wearing puddles of club grease who solve nothing but smell like Axe.

But, oh, the things you and I could do together, Purple.

We'd drive across the Kalahari on a stolen Vespa with only a flat bottle of Mr. Pibb and fourteen Fig Newtons to sustain us. At night we'd lie under canopy, swat the tse-tse flies and I'd rub your thighs with Crisco and a large rolling pin until their tender flesh revitalized my spirits.

Because that's how I roll.

T-Pubes on the chin,
Flaming head bleach, cactus face.
Bullock Likes? I weep.

When he bedded her
It's the day the music died
Only sports-talk now

-- k-federbag

Crisp hair of sponge cake
plus flasher girl with man hands
equals puckered ass

-- Duck Duck Douche

Sandra, oh Sandra.
Step away from neon hair.
Gamma rays harmful.

-Amerigo Vesdouchey

His blank stare tells all.
The slight twinkle in her eye
Will soon turn to tears.

-- tricky dick

I'm not sure if we've officially categorized this trend yet, but one of the more disturbing douche accoutrement developments of the past six months has been the merging of Jesus Bling and the Douche Dog-Tags into what can only be described as "Jesus Tags."

Note their prominent display on the groin shoving douchewank on the left.

I suppose one could dub these adouchrements "God-Tags," but I'm not opening that whole can of theological douche-worms.

Instead I will simply sing Andrew Lloyd Webber show tunes at these two balls of scrotal decay until they disappear in a flash of Broadway spectacle.

At which point I would suckle and fondle the libretto for Ballet Hott's audition tape until she emoted Stanislavsky style and let me hump her leg like a shreiking rhesus monkey during the rainy season.

Grab a table and hang on, folks. The Olive Loaf is riding into town. And he's got his eyes on boobies.

What can stop the Olive Loaf Experience?

Hosing him down?

Taking away his hair braid extensions?

Having angry nuns forcibly remove the rosary from his neck at knife-point?

I do not know the answer to these perplexing questions. But I do know that I would oil paint her purse in day-glo 1960s colors just for the chance to drink her electric koolaid and fly over her cuckoo's nests. Or into them. Or onto them. Mmm... nests.

That's it. This pic put me over the edge. Where's my bottle of J.D.

Here's a classic example of sweetness and heaping grease scrote wrongness.

How did this coupling come to pass?

What cultural forces brought together Sexy Sadie and The Walrus? Is there any possible way to liberate her from the grip of pinky ring choad? Could she be shown that The Walrus offends our collective aesthetic?

Or is she cursed to drive down that dark New Jersey highway forever?

Alls I know is the furry collar jacket without t-shirt, is pure class, Walrus. Goo goo ga joob.

Is this one of the Twin 'Bags that won the Weekly back in May?

Looks like a Halloween pic, which I normally don't run. Except when it features a 'bag who decided to dress up for Halloween as an even bigger 'bag.

And naturally, find himself surrounded by Jenny and Sally, the Hott Sisters. Majoring in Fashion Design, but with a dream to someday be the go-to hair and makeup team on the set of "Gossip Girl."

Don't worry cuties. Your time will come.

Just ditch the Twin. Especially Jenny with the carnal gaze. I've never looked sexier, sitting in my floor on in my underwear, Jenny. So I can understand your lustful glances.

For those scoring at home, "Affliction" shirts are +2 when scoring douchestrological rank.

Two matching "Affliction" shirts in a standard 'bag sandwich formation around a tasty ham hottie?

I don't even have the tools to measure or rank the douche echo from such an event. It is off the charts.

Then factor in the combo hair spike, and I'm sent into a spiraling social decline.

In other words I make fun of them while enjoying a tasty Hostess HoHo snack cake.

I was wondering what would be a good look to wear out tonight.

Then it dawned on me. I'm going with the combo striped shirt, black tie, douche-face, sunglasses, mandana + baseball cap combo, and top it off with a Captain America Decoder Ring from a box of Cracker Jack.

Yeah. That's the plan.

I will then gang tackle a drunk cutie in ski goggles, hook my arm around her, and repeatedly head-butt her ear.

Or would that make me a screaming uberchoad?

Why yes. Yes it would.

I see something something.

Although I'd rather I hadn't.

Really. Please. Put it away.

You're distracting me from curvy femme on femme cuddling. Which is also the name for a great early 80s thrash punk band.

It's like Mardi Gras at the Tiki Hut.

With perfect abs on college cuties.

And a frog.

No offense. I'm sure he's a nice guy. Probably not even a 'bag on any real level. But a frog.

What has two fingers, looks like Kevin Dillon mated with Quentin Tarantino, and smells like a raging pile of douchewank?

This guy.

Blinded in a freakish kiln explosion because he was making her a pot? Maybe. But the sunglasses and douche-lips are enough. He is d-wank.

Not that I'm into the model/replicant look on my hotties. I prefer them real. Or at least realistic.

But he is choad. And so we mock his sunglasses at night and Pee Wee Herman bowtie.

He... wants to rock and roll all niiiiight... and work at Denny's all day...

So which is more annoying? The armpit sweat spot, the ridiculous douche-face, or Kato with the dribbling chin fungus, double fisting beer while catatonically smoking a cig?

Platinum Blonde makes me vaguely uneasy but, as they say in Oslo, boobies.

There is a disease they call douche-face,
When spotted on choads you should use mace,
For hotties exposed,
Will find douche-face transposed,
And end up living out of a suitcase.

While the early groundswell of support for the Assferno gave way to discounting for being too "professional," and the spectacular uberdouchosity of The Warthog also began to wane, the slow and steady nausea of The Miller Lite Fratchoad and his perfect blonde hottie won the race and takes the Weekly with ease.

As Darin sums it up in the comments thread, there's just something about Fratty McChoad and his blondie that was too horrifying to ignore:

The other two candidates are impressive in their own ways, but for sheer, raw, douchiness, the 'Bag Islander picture is the equivalent of a chile that seems mild and fruity on first bite, but grows and swells with heat, until your mouth, your digestive tract, and eventually your entire body is wracked and overwhelmed with burning, nausea, and sweat.

Well said, Darin. Sometimes we underestimate the power of the Miller Lite Fratchoad to personify all that is douche. As doucheland, doucheland, über alles puts it:

The guy in the 'Bag Islanders is classic douche. He's harkening back on the days back in the 80s/early 90s when he thought he was hot s@#t. Headband, the dyed hair, and the douchegrin and gesture which suggest he's saying "You da man!" Miller Lite is also a nice touch.

Heh. Nice dig at the Motherland with the name, DDUA.

But The Warthog and Dante's Assferno found their fans. Danny Noonan tees up a golf shot for The Warthog:

The 'bag Islander inspires hate in me unseen since Sam moved in with the Drummonds on Diff'rent Strokes. Yet not quite the hate I feel for the Warthog. The Warthog's proximity to one of the all time HCs (Hollish McRacky) and his complete scrote tint and face put him in a rare category. It's gotta be the Warthog.

Interestingly, the Assferno received a number of votes from our female 'bag hunters. dita von douche casts in with the pros:

I have to vote Dante's Assferno. The amount of ass in the picture, the level of douchosity, the making out chicks with the tramp stamp, the tats.... Assferno by a landslide.

And mistress julie agrees:

Dante's Assferno because it's just like watching bad porn: hot chicks and revolting douches in the same screen shot. Yuck. I don't need to see faces, just close ups here please. And by close ups, I mean asses.

The ladies love the merits of the female posterior, and who am I to argue with that logic?

But stanley ipkiss makes the case for the 'Bag Islanders to take the crown:

Close call. But i'd go with the 'Bag Islanders.

Watching a obscenely rich, braindead zombiechoad winking way to glory like a retarded genetically deformed white Congolese chimpanzee with beer and still getting the hotties makes me clutch my chest with agonizing pain. is there no justice in this world?

Oh, and the mammaries of the hottie behind makes me curse at my nothingness in the society.

I feel your pain, S.I. And I'm pleased to see the undefinable affect within the nausea inducing hottie/douche cohabitation of the 'Bag Island carry it to a victory.

Sure it's not as obvious as other pics. But it's there. Oh yes. That rank foul odor of hott and choad, mixing amidst daddy's boat and a warm can of Miller Lite.

Chalk up a victory for the White Man's Overbite, and punch the 'Bag Island a ticket to the Monthly.

Que bella! Rio Hottie is a a tasty drink of water. The tan-lines curve along windy skin rivers of trickling water over rocks. She has poetic boobies of boobage poetry. I would, uhm, grab them.

Hmm. That wasn't so poetic. Just true.

Gunter is your typical metro-bag urban club going douchewank. Just the right hint of chin-fungus and cactus hair. And by right, I mean wrong.

Yes, there have been others like Gunter. And there will be again. But that doesn't mean I can't mock his shaven chest and zombie face. Or the unfair possession of Rio Hottie.

Together, they wear white.

Every bar has one.

The 'Bag in the Bar. The dude who stays until close every night. The creepy weird guy who everyone's friendly with, but not too friendly because you're not quite sure if he has a job, or even an apartment outside of his well worn spot sipping Bud Light's and chatting up the weary bartender hottie.

Here's one of these BitBs caught in action, mugging a doe eyed bar wench straight out of a 19th Century Manchester pub somewhere in Northern England. I'd ask her to serve me a mug of Mead, and then discuss land taxation and the problem of the proles.

One of the true legends of HCwDB, the power of "Hall of Scrote" enshrined Fish Slap's oily charms to pull unbelievable hot chicks remains potent, greasy and completely douchuous.

Just look at the lineup of hott that the douche who deserves a slap in the face from a dead halibut has pulled here, here, and here.

Now we find the 'Slap featuring the early warning signs of leathery Gator-like Wrath of Khan chest? Is there no end to the scrotal intermingling of 'bag signifiers among the triumphant uber-douche specimens that pull the hottest of boob-hott?

Here's to you, Fish Slap. And by here's to you, I mean a dead mackerel to the face and I'd feel a little better.

Not much. But a little.

Watch out, Newt!! Facehugger wants to lay douche-eggs in your stomach!!

Or, to paraphrase Ripley in the landing hanger: Get away from her, you douche!!

Heh.

Yeah.

Obvious. But I went for it.

I'm not sure when the wool cap, tilted and pulled low over the ears, became a staple of the douche wardrobe rotation. Usually you see hats like that on weary middle aged Russians climbing up-hill through the snow to fetch the weekly bread shipment from Minsk.

Here we see it on a severed floating pimple-head popping up about three mature but dirrty cuties like a plastic whack-a-mole.

Someone clearasil that wool cap before drunken blonde on the left does something she'll regret in the morning.

Of all the many permutations and combinations of Douchebag hat tilt, this may be a first.

The 180 Degree Z-Axis Triple Lindig of 'Bag Hat Tilt. Impressive, Creepy Toad. Most impressive.

His doughy shaven chest makes Calcutta Nuns rend their garments and convert to Scientology.

She is goofy Long Island Iced Tea with lemon goodness. I'd order her with my steak and popcorn shrimp at the Sizzler.

I reiterate the following guideline for all douche classification:

Those who purchase shirts with annoying crude statements on them as a means of demonstrating humor and personality, have neither.

It's not so much that the state school douchewanks piss me off. Although they do.

It's watching them scrote their scrotey wares while being totally and completely clueless to the level of outrageously unbalanced hott that God has seen clear to bless them with through their four C+ years of business school malaise.

You just don't deserve that, Az State Wank. Not even remotely.

Although Mia Sara Hottie does seem to have one ginormous leg. A Ferrari stealing school skipping Rooney embarrassing thighosity.

But I would still crash Cameron's car just for the chance to secretly watch her change by the jacuzzi.

In an impressive display of hair carving ability, Stardouche has qualified for 'bag status with neither hand gesture, face gesture, tatt nor giant goiter in the shape of the letters "D" and "B."

Instead, he's busting what appears to be either the Bat Signal or a shamrock. Shaved into his head. And unless you're a rookie linebacker getting hazed on the Cincinatti Bengals, that's some douchey-ass hair.

Smirking Lip Gloss cutie is all sorts of trouble. And trouble happens to be my middle name.

Okay no. My middle name is Bernie. Stupid Bernie. Why aren't you Trouble?

Some 'bags are hard to spot.

Their scrotey wiley charms are hidden. Covert. They must be parsed out using only one's cunning and a small Malaysian boy as trade.

Other douchewanks hit you over the head with a large polo mallet.

Like 10 Degree White Shadow 'Bag.

Thwack.

Ouch.

Is White Shadow the legendary Fish Slap? The chin says possibly.

But all I do know is that Bustier Hottie is a tiny bouncing ball on top of the closed captioning sing-along words of my heterosexuality. Words that say boob.

To celebrate the joy that is the Dunkin' Donut, I'm dedicating this week's Weekly to the creamy honey glazed goodness of the greatest East Coast donut chain this side of Winchells.

Sure, the Krispy Kreme fans have their upscale high rent classy 'nuts. But the true hero of the working man is the Dunkin'. With crackified coffee and surly high school counter employee, nothing quite says "New England Repressed WASP Dysfunction" quite like the Dunkin' Donut experience.

And no, this isn't a sponsored ad. I just loves me the D.D. Living in L.A. has its shortcomings sometimes.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: The 'Bag Islanders

Don't understimate the sneaking gut-punch pain of this perfect curvy schooner and Miller Lite Fratchoad.

At first it seems a relatively benign hottie/douchey coupling.

She's adorable. He's annoying. But there's nothing too nauseating about the combo.

At first.

But then you notice it. Like a chocolate frosted donut, its afterburps lingering in your esophagus. Long after your initial consumption.

As we've learned in the past six months, the sailboat is the new Long Island. The place where pudgy doughboys score hotties simply by their proximity to water and an expensive boat.

What puts the 'Bag Island into the finals is the look on Grimace's face. His winking nod to his buddy. Ignoring the hott in favor of the "We rock!" gesture.

And the two Island choads in the back engaging in intensive debate about the merits of "The Hills" versus "The Real World" don't hurt neither.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Dante's Assferno

There's an utter genius to this satanic otherworldly swirl of unholy monstrosity.

It is arousing, sickening, and makes me hungry for a pop tart.

But there's also the vaguely "porny" drawback.

As with any great HCwDB combo, what we look for is the amateur. The clueless choad unawares of the hott he doesn't deserve. The authentic that renders the curvy/hairy combo so intoxicatingly infuriating you want to splice your eyes with an egg cutter.

But this boat pic appears "pro." Can the zombified soulless trolls truly compete on the hottie/douchey rage factor?

To answer this question, I can only say ass.

Ass.

Lovely, lovely ass.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: The Warthog

There's something ethereally and otherworldly captivating about this pic. Maybe it's The Warthog's bizarre shade of orange.

Maybe it's the sweet Dutch Girl Hotties, one of whom has her finger in the dyke.

And yes, I just made the worst joke ever.

But putting aside the lameness of that absolutely embarrassing and shameful pun, there's something incoherent and wrong about this pic that I couldn't stop staring at.

The middle cutie is Reese Witherspoon club tramp sexy. And the Warthog's "Kill" t-shirt and douche-face are enough to up anyone's blood pressure before their morning coffee.

Is it enough to take out the Assferno? Or the 'Bag Islanders?

That, my friends, is up to you.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

How's a little Velvet Smog with a candy cane chutes and ladders Pink Hottie to counterbalance the fumes on a lazy Sunday.

Mmm... this pic has just the right ratio of hottie/doucherot. A Tiny Dancer with a perfect smile and shoulders of saltwater taffy I'd nuzzle like a lost dairy cow at 2am in Nebraska, and a heaping pile of 'bag hand gesturing frog intestine.

It's enough to make me want to get down like that Groovy Dude in the back left. Shake it don't break it, Groove Man.

I think an argument can be made that 1982's Zapped! is an underexamined nexus point for the emerging pre-Grieco douche revolution that led into the 1990s scrotal grease plague.

Watching this clip has that wonderfully innocent early 80s teen douchebaggery/hottie action. It's like quasi student film teen parody. It's got the form of a teen comedy, only somebody forgot to add actual jokes. And it's paced slower than something involving quadriplegics and running. Like a marathon.

Yes, that slow.

But oh, Heather Thomas, you saucy blonde minx, you. And watching a pre "Charles in Charge" Baio/Aames douche-teaming is like witnessing Hope and Crosby in their prime.

If Bing Crosby was a choad. And Bob Hope was a douche nozzle.

Still, there's something genius about "Zapped!" And by genius, I mean dated.

This isn't even doggie stylin'. More like Panda Pawin'.

G.I. Choad is rockin' the military haircut like he's storming the beach at Harrah's Hotel and Casino. He's paradouching in to the Strip to take out some hotties, Green Beret style. And by Green Beret style, I mean Panda 'Baggin.

No real bling to up the obnoxious factor. But the sunglasses and cell phone stylin', as well as that pucker lipped douche-face, qualify for State Trooper Fratchoad.

And of course, the Tri-Budlite bendable hottie with Kung Fu Grip. She's all sorts of slutty tablecloth raunch.

The kind you never, ever, under any circumstances, introduce to your mom. Instead you rent her an apartment on the upper east side and keep the whole thing quiet.

But even paying that $2200 a month rent is worth it. Every penny. No doubt about it.

There's not a lot of obvious signs to give away the scrotal scrotundae of Toothy McChip here. Well, there is the Corey Hart (sunglasses at night). But otherwise, fairly low on the douchological spectrum.

And yet his Douche Aura pervades the pic like a glowing otherworldly apparition of sackless eunuch song.

Swan Hottie is the perfect drink of water for a friday night. I would hug her blue satin curves like a 2004 Mazerati Coup on a windy road. I would sail her America's Cups around the shorelines of Australia.

Which is to say I would, uhm, enjoy cohabitation for at least 23 awkward seconds of fumbling and groping. And then gasping for air and nearly passing out.

To truly appreciate a paradigm shifting douche force like The Gator (now safely ensconsed in the Hall of Scrote), one need only observe the follow-up scrotes. The Jr. 'Bags who emulate his choady iconography with 1/10th the ability.

Like a cheap knock off T.V. set, Gate Jr., has none of the pull, the affect, the power of douchal emination that is contained in the gale force douchebaggery that is The Gator.

But he tries. Like every wannabe, he's doing his best.

And he does have the uberhot chicks. God damn. I would gnaw off my own earlobes using a time/space continuum just for the chance to wash, dry, fluff and fold Beauty's two perfect Beasts.

So I'll give him that.

EuroBlonde writes in:

------------
-- (E.B)
------------

Wish I had a better picture because those Dual Paprika 'Bags apprear to be as choady as Euroblonde's hint of swelling boobage is tasty.

Mmm... swollen bosom. A bosom that bespeaks a Utopian future of angels and ice cream. HoHos and Night Train for all.

Love the "bandito" look, Bo. But I can't tell whether you're about to play center field for the Kansas City Royals or you're wearing a table cloth from a Chinese restaurant.

Nor can I tell why there's a sideways peace sign making crack ferret jumping into frame.

But the MILFs are tasty in that sexy Parent-Teacher conference way. I'd ask them to discuss little Tommy's C- in History, and then I'd ravish them by the arts and crafts area.

I can't tell if this is the same douche-mutant as last year's The Warthog, because I can't stare into that gaping maw long enough without wetting myself out of fear, revulsion and horror.

Nor can I take the time to appreciate the Dutch Girl Hotties. He's just too disturbing.

We should, however, give credit to the Warthog for his fantastic performance in that classic Twilight Zone episode. Because douchebaggery is in the eye of the beholder.

Except in this case.

That's pretty much objective douchebaggy.

Beach boobs and sand crabs,
Asian Johnny Chase says "'sup,"
Skinny sand turd smirks.


she's paid to be there.
Vanilla Ice needs to eat.
hey Duck Dong, go swim.

-- pfah

The face of a crab,
The body of a goddess.
Perfect for blind man.

-- the alpha douche

close to the shoreline
is that a great white shark?
lord, hear my prayer.

-- doucheronomy 68

Pursed lips, peroxide
Is that doggy style invite?
Call Godzilla quick

-- Dion Didouchie

douche grease and hair bleach:
the greatest threat to oceans
since Exxon Valdez

-- douche vader

What once seemed a trend has exploded into full blown cultural ubiquity: Hottie/Douchey boat mating.

I'm not sure why the presence of lounging around with Miller Lites on a motorboat brings out the inner hot-chick justification to show off her wares to neighboring scrotewanks.

But what is it about the presence of boat that allows ocean turds to float onto dry land like shriveled whale poo?

Take Grinny McPud here. Rides on the short bus? Perhaps. Ignores the hott grinding into him in favor of a "Hey dude, we rock!" gesture to a compatriot choad? Definitely.

And so we write "balls" on his head. And lust for blonde ambition.

Man, and I thought The Creeper had a skeezy vile tongue from the pits of Satanic arena rock.

This is like a solid sandwich of nuclear scrotastic fusion cuisine. It should be on the menu at Koi. I'd look away but my irises just melted into puddles of gummi bear goo.

The Hard Rock Casino and Hotel.

Las Vegas, Nevada.

Douche Mecca.

Kissy Lips.

I'll have the muscle choad and slutty hottie cocktail.

With a side order of mandana.

To go.

Angry 'Bag has the Freddy Rodriguez in "Six Feet Under" scruff thing working He douches by day, cleans up corpses by night.

Bottom 'Bag has the frosted tips and clueless expression of the lobotomized mental patients featured in Frederick Wiseman's Titicut Follies. Because referencing 1960s cinema verite is what I'm all about, yo.

Healthy Brown Tipped Blonde's smile is like the musical cadences of the stutter speech of 1990s David Mamet dialogue. I would overact Pacino style if it meant I could Garry her Glens with a hoo-ah.

And that's just way too many film/tv references for one post. I feel post-modernly dirty. But not Portland Doctors on Craigslist dirty.

Many aspiring 'bag hunters ask me, "DB1, how does the Douche Virus travel between hottie and choad? In how many myriad ways does it transmit?"

After first complimenting them on the proper use of the word "myriad," I explain that Grieco Viral transmission passes through the simultaneity of physical contact and a 'bag gesture of some sort. For instance, the douche move pictured here.

Douche Licking is amplified in its potency when the choad in question simultaneously makes a 'Bag Hand Gesture during transmission. And wears a silly shirt.

Observe the scrote-to-hott infection in action.

Or you can just stare at the Rainbow Pillows and drool like an Australian hyena pumped full of amphedidrine. Like I am. Because the Scrotal Sciences take a back-seat to bouncy rainbow pillows.

Just ask Jonas Salk. He was obsessed with boobies. That guy just wouldn't stop.

I think it's high time to promote The Gator to the Hall of Scrote.

And by high time, I mean douche time. And by douche time, I mean kicking Gator in the nads and doing the 6-boob bongo dance, which reached #12 on the charts back in '92.

Megods. Look at this monstrosity of choad.

This pic crystallizes all that is the ephemeral about the cultural trainwreck of hottie/douchebaggy commingling. In what fair and just theological framework do women this hot congregate in the presence of one with Nerf football head, greased up shaven chest, and the low cut black garb worn by Zod in Superman II? Why, in hottie/douche land, of course.

I would nuzzle in Pink's flesh pillows like a homeless sparrow seeking regurgitated food from its sparrow mother. Peep. Peep.

I put it to the floor.

Any objections to The Gator for the hallowed "Hall of Scrote" (found in the left-hand column by scrolling down), speak now, or forever hold your grease.

Or, better yet, use this thread to laud the genius of The Gator's supreme douchebaggery. And by laud, I mean mock.

There once was a Rocker Douche named Jammin',
Whose dreads smelled vaguely like salmon,
He trolled the high schools,
To find teenage jewels,
To get drunk like a poor Alabaman.

Okay. There's the Middle Finger Choadbag with annoying t-shirt and dog-tags. There's the scrumptuous little pancake hottie that looks like the hot chick on "Crossing Jordan" if she were from, well, Jordan.

But I'm genuinely frightened by Creepy Hovering Window Vampirebag. It's like the "I Buried Paul" of HCwDB.

The Vampirebag just takes this pic to the next level. There's the proper hottie/douchey dual reactions of rage and attraction. But now with Supernatural Fear.

It's a whole new 'bag, baybee.

Chris writes in with the following question:

------
-------

The Pink I-Zod (and its compatriot, The Pink Polo) does not in and of itself confer inherent douche status, but it is a warning sign of potential douchebaggery. Like the growl of the Amur Tiger of Uttar Pradesh or a hooker named Candii saying "Hi!" it presages potential disaster if you make the wrong choice.

Any popped collar, on the other hand, confers auto stage-1 douche status.

Without exception.

And Pink I-Zod Popped Collar reverberates across the douchological spectrum exponentially, scaring old ladies, causing milk to go bad and punching a really, really cute possum in the face.

If the present world go astray, the cause is in you, in you it is to be sought.

-- Dante Alighieri

I looked in me for the root cause of our societal decay, Dante. But I still want to rent a condo inside of Brunette's buttocks and move in for a fortnight.

-- DB1

Despite a groundswell of cheer for the people's princess, Ricky, Smmove Velvet Jones's power of classic douche stench was far too much to overcome.

Velvet takes the weekly with ease.

Was it the bling? The Velvet? Or that heinous 'stache? Or perhaps the other side of the equation? That smooth slice of strawberry goodness on his arm that makes you want to slam your head in a car door.

sir scrotesly makes the case:

Velvet has what may be the most dizzying array of 'bag signifiers ever captured in one digital image.

Make the list: Purple velour shirt, top 2-3 buttons undone. Faux-platinum wrist bling. Faux-platinum dogtags. Billy Dee Williams 'stache. Oversized "designer" sunglasses. Poorly-executed comb-over.

He's one mandana away from a complete sensory overload. And this made all the worse by the fact that he's clutching a pouty-lipped pink ball of cleavite with eyes sensuous enough to cause even the proudest of homosexuals to feel an explosion of self-loathing.

Well said, my friend. All the classic douche/hott dialectics are present. douchetonic agrees:

Velvet Jones. Although I am very tempted to vote for Ricky, Velvet pulls through with the imitation-Dolomite image, an image I rarely see among D-Bags.

Excellent Dolomite reference, D.T. A long neglected film that deserves its place in the canon.

But the legend of Ricky may remain with us long past this Weekly. There are special Douchies I hand out to people like Ricky. So he may stay with us after all. Like a rash. On my groin.

As douchette1 puts it:

ricky! he's all "sup?!" and hottie's all turning away and going "NOOOO! don't take my picture with this wanker!" and ricky's still all "sup?!"

Yes. Yes he is. Or, as bcs puts it:

He is the Indiana nightclub version of Rudy. He is the everyday man, who somehow finds himself on a path to fornicating with greatness. Who are we to stop him?

I vote for him, not because he is a douche, but because there is a little Ricky inside of us all.

Indeed bcs, I think that's Ricky's pick-up line. "Would you like a little Ricky inside you all?" Or, as The Arch Douche eloquently put it:

Wherever I am, for as long as I live, Ricky will always be dancing behind me. It can’t be undone, so it must be mourned.

Yes he will, T.A.D. Just like a scrunt, use a mirror. But while Ricky came in second, and BOING! a disappointingly distant third, this is Velvet's moment to shine, along with Strawberry Cheesecake. As Col. John "Hannibal" Douche wisely sums it up with a back to basics appeal:

How is this even a question. Velvet Jones. Hes a pro - the total package.

Yes. Yes he is. So pour yourself a frosty cold mug of the classy Colt 45 and toast Velvet's pro-douche game, as well as Strawberry Cheesecake's wondrous mounds of feminine signification.

They're this week's Weekly winner. And bringin' their A-Game to the Monthly.

She's a little too Darryl Hannah for my tastes, but still possesses impressively enhanced child feeding ability.

He, however, is a Waxen Choad.

Normally one would assume that looking like a douched out version of Liza Minelli's ex-husband and animated wax figurine, David Gest, would be a detriment to one's goals of scoring a hott ball of boobie pie.

However we don't live in normal times, now do we?

Listen up, Porkpie Steve Zahn. As much as I loved you when you came out of the closet in Winona Ryder's integrity filled video doc in Reality Bites, the leather wristband? Lose it.

As to Gwynneth?

Some people dream of world peace.

Some people dream of ending global poverty.

I dream of tapping out Ringo Starr's drum solo from The End on her lower clavicles with licorice drum sticks while butt grinding her hoop earrings and calling her "granmama... my granmama..." in a falsetto sing-song voice.

Uhm, yeah. I need help.

Molten hot 'Bagma writes in:

-------
Dear DB1:

In stumbling upon your hilarious and also extremely necessary blog, i have found a level of satisfaction that is almost unparalelled.

With this being said, I have just something to add.

The other day me and my boys were hanging out at our local college/twentysomethings bar and the song "Crazy Bitch" by Buckcherry came on.

It was like some douche preist stood atop mount st. douchey and called all the 'bags within a 10 mile radius to come and prey at the choad temple. Before i knew it the the whole bar was filled with spiked hair, cheesy tribal tatts, shades in dimly lit areas and orange tattoos. I would like to nominate this song as the official Douche anthem/ call to action. Just a suggestion. Keep making the site hilarious.

Molten hot 'Bagma
-------

Excellent work, MhB. This video just blasted me with cheap tatts and body odor mixed with Tag Bodyshots. There is no doubt this video is extreme douchosity and deserves our collective observation of its post-Kid-Rock festering swamp of trashbaggery.

Congratulations are in order for Buckcherry, you've just be crowned official anthem of Douche for 2007.

Expect an Honorary Douchie at the Douchie Awards in December.

(warning: video is NSFW)

"Roadkill and boobies."

Where have I heard that before? Either that was a classic album by Stevie Ray Vaughn, or it describes this pic.

His runover porcupine corpse on I-5. Her boobies of firm succulent early morning dew and honeysuckle glow.

Together. Roadkill and boobies.

Cue guitar solo.

I refuse to accept that I share a genetic species with this waxen plastic android.

I will, however, share genetics with Pouty McBlondehott on the right.

Heh.

I made a clever.

BOING! can't believe he's trailing badly in 3rd place in the HCwDB of the Week contest. Its currently douche-neck and douche-neck between Smoove Velvet Jones and the Everybag Ricky.

To protest his utter lack of douchepreciation, BOING! is going to give himself a proctology exam. With a giant spiked cactus.

Voting is still open, scroll down and cast your vote. Help a Boinga out.

It's hard to determine exactly when a trend turns into a full blown onslaught. But the mass replication of the Fauxhawk/Mohawk is undeniable at this point. It is rapidly replacing the popped collar as the single biggest giveaway of douche.

I had thought the wispy fwiphawk development of late 2004 had consumed itself in a post Ryan Seacreast American Idol swamping of mass consumption by this point. But here it is again, retuning in mutated douchological form. Perched fungally on top of this greasy middle aged Gypsy Moth Chinbag.


As to the two hotties? What's the word I'm searching for.

Oh yeah.

Yes.

Punch Drunk 'Bag has the puka shell muscle choad look down perfectly. He's like the foreign kid in highschool who took out all of his culture-shock frustrations by spendng six hours a day in the weight room. Pumping up with an angry "don't talk to me" scowl and listening to 1980s Swedish death metal blasting on his iPod.

You rock with your bad self, Punch Drunk 'Bag. And I dig that boat you're on. Very Miami nouveau riche.

Persian Kitty makes me want to sing hymns in Sanskrit while inventing Algebra.

Then there are the hottie/douchey couples that simply disturb. No amount of curvy soft boobage, nor mockable tatted up burnt out rocker choad, can demystify the stench of wrong. They are simply a vortex of karmic societal pain personified in the frozen duality of heterosexual dalliance.

Take Billy Go Potty and His Squatting Hottie, pictured here. They dance the douchetron dance at what appears to be Douche Mecca itself, the Hard Rock Casino's Rehab party.

As such, they form a singularity of suck. There is no recovery for the hottie who dances so close to Billy Goes Potty. There is only the darkness of finger tattoos.

What saddens me is Billy's sporting the Kirk Douglas chin dimple. And Kirk Douglas kicks ass. No douche should be allowed the Kirk Douglas chin dimple. Not in any sane or just world.

Only Spartacus gets the dimple. And Billy is not Spartacus.

Speaking of Lando Calrissian in the Weekly (and don't forget to vote), is this greasy douchewank actually Lando's right hand man in Cloud City, Lobot?

Ever get the feeling that when it came down to naming the smaller characters in the Star Wars universe, George Lucas stopped trying to rework Japanese and started just slapping new first letters on existing words?

Yeah, he's uh... Domputer? Nah. How about Mandroid? Nah.

He's Lobot!

I would ravish European Stable Wench Hottie in a bale of hay while the phonograph played Dietrich's Der Trommelmann in the echoey scratchy distance. By the farmhouse.

And yes, I just switched from George Lucas to 1920s European literature. Because I'm freaky like that.

In meditating on the hott/choad combos this week, I'm reminded of the 1985 classic teen comedy about smart kids, Real Genius. Mitch tells Chris Knight that he had a strange dream. Chris asks Mitch, "Was it a dream where you see yourself standing in sort of sun-god robes on a pyramid with a thousand naked women screaming and throwing little pickles at you?"

Mitch answers no. And Chris asks, "Why am I the only one who has that dream?"

I have that dream too, Chris. Only it involves tiny jelly donuts, Purg Hottie and a tub of Crisco.

But you don't want to hear my perverted sex fantasies. Nor even quotes from the classic that is Real Genius.

You want me to get to this week's hottie/douchey finalists. And here they is:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Velvet Jones

Velvet 'Bag not only features the classic receding hairline "comb-forward" but the Billy Dee Colt 45 smoove 'stache of sexual healing.

Look at that 'stache. I mean seriously. Stare at it. It's almost hypnotic.

V.J. also reminds us that douchebaggery may have originated in the Italian/Guido universe, but it has spread its cross cultural impact like some airborn chicken flu pandemic.

We see 'bags in Bangledesh. We see scrote in Scranton. We see choad in China. As such, Velvet Douche's smooth chest and dog-tag bling reek with viral douchosity.

As to the other side of the hottie/douchey equation, Strawberry Cheesecake more than holds up her end of the bargain. God damn I'd like to wrap us up in plastic and ship us by Fedex to Mobile, Alabama. Five day delivery.

Her boobies astound. Just as her levitating dress astounds the late 1970s magical wonderkind Doug Henning. Oh come on. Like you haven't heard of Doug Henning.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: Boing!

One of the key meaning structures of performative douchebaggery involves what philospher Guy Debord describes as "Society of the Spectacle."

This notion, expanded upon by Baudrillard and ultimately leading to two craptastic Matrix sequels featuring a zombified Keanu Reeves speaking incomprehensible gibberish about levels of reality, engages the notion that mass culture creates social meaning through intertextual visually enhanced spectacles of false construction.

The spectacle supercedes the actual. The spectacle within the simularcrum leads to ... BOING!

When the cool mediums transmit meaning, we end up with... BOING!

Because the only way to snag the boobies in an image saturated visual culture is to... BOING!

BOING!

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Ricky

There's something wonderfully charming about Ricky's amateur douchebaggery. He's not really a 'bag on any physical level, and yet he scrotes with the desperate hunger of the wannabe choad trying to get down with the hotties.

So in a sense he's charming.

In another sense, he's an awkward douche.

I went back and forth on letting Ricky compete for the Weekly, but then I decided every so often we need a hero to the working class douchitudes. Ricky is Rocky. Ricky is The Washington Generals.

He has little chance of getting served a platter of Hott later that night. But he's trying. Dammit, he's trying.

Hero? Choadmunch? Both? That's what we're here to judge.

So here ya go, Ricky. You made it to the finals. What you do with it is up to you.

Honorable mention goes to DJ Poopy Head, who just missed the cut.

So while we have no clear Gators this week to trounce the competition like a hungry hungry hippo, we do have three divergent yet complimentary tropes with which to parse extended hottie/douchebaggery discussions around.

Is it the everyday underdog of 'bag, Ricky? Or does the visual spectacle of BOING! confirm Baudrillard's fears about a culture in which visual spectacle supersedes the real?

Or should we buy Velvet Jones's smoove mustache a Colt .45 and bask in his Lando Calrissian echo?

That, my friends, is up to you.

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

Reader snarky writes in with the following pic:

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Not sure who made this, but it's pretty hilarious.

Millard Fillmore. American Douchebag.

As douche vader put it in the comments thread to the previous pic:

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There's rage, and then there's disgust, but no single douchebag ever featured on this site captures those two emotions within me, at the same time, like this guy. I literally recoil in bile filled horror every time I see his picture. If I had a bat and that tongue was lined up in the cross hairs, I'm not even sure I could take a swing. How do you hit the mother of all douchebags in the face with a bat, agent Kujan? What if you miss?
------

So eloquent a 'bag smackdown D.V. that I had to post this pic just for you.

Because he's Keyser Douchey.

And she used to be part of a boobieshop quartet in Skokie, Illinois.

HCwDB of the Month winner and legendary alien slug zombie from the 1980s, The Creeper, decided to bring along his absolutely rancid tongue and a delightfully full bosomed (if terribly Bleethed) hottie, to say hi on a Saturday.

Hi, Creeper! Hi! Good to see you.

You are still beyond mere douchebaggery. An extra serving of festering blister pus. I will mock you from the safe confines of my apartment floor. Because you are with a terribly sexy minx you do not deserve.

But that rainbow shirt makes me wonder if you weren't a clown this entire time. Fooling us into thinking you were 'bag. A clown dressed as a douchescrote. A sad douche clown.

Reader Sexy Dumpling writes in:

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Hi,

I'm an Asian female, and I got invited to join a facebook group called "Asian Girls and White Guys."

Here are a couple gems in the photo album I found within the first couple minutes.

Atrocious.

~ Sexy Dumpling
--------

Yikes.

Stay away from the Gwai-Lo douchebaggery, Sexy Dumpling. Then again, it's these choads that are the digital pixelated fuel that feeds my fire.

So I can't complain, I s'pose.

Nah, sure I can. Nice arm tat, Camobag.

As to the Garlic Chicken Hottie, I would dip those soup dumplings in soy sauce until my beef were broccoli'd.

Hmmm. That sex/food metaphor may have read just a little too visually.

Los Angeles. City of 'bags. City of hott.

It was the breast of times. It was the douche of times.

Choadbags flexing like twitching insects in the crackling dry desert underbrush.

Hottes rolling through downtown like mystical apparitions of boobosity, possessed spirits like Native American tribal elders. Cursed to wander between the axes of all that is soft, lickable and juicy assed, and all that is chest shaving scrotemunch.

The z4 Roadsters, like chariots, awaiting the spiritual afterlife journey of the douche/boob soul, torn asunder betwixt chaotic contradiction.

I sip my cup of Night Train and I regard the hott and the douche. Grappling and clutching as if trapped in amber. Frozen in perpetuity. An existential crisis of iconic sweet and douchewank. Of cleavite and scrotundae.

I see boobies. I see mandanas.

I see contradiction. I see paradox. I see desire and choad, mixing like a foul cocktail with a hint of sweetness. A hint of hope.

And it is Woo.

One of the dangers of waterskiing on Lake Winnipedouchey is the Grease Shark.

Known for its tribal-tat fin structure and scrotal eye protection, the Grease Shark attacks stealthily and with minimal distruption of Miller Lite or Energy Drink.

When its victim is distracted by camera flash, the Grease Shark will jump out of the water and attack with a gutteral cry that sounds vaguely like, "Whatsup, yo?"

Close the beach, Mayor.

He's coming back for his noon feeding.

Is douchey spiked exploding hair that looks like Frame #27 of the Zapruder Film enough to qualify for 'Bag?

Is the douche-face hurdling over the bar of what constitutes a stage-1 douchuous cherry pit in the fruit bowl of life?

And why are they posing in front of abstract green-screen paintings by Magritte?

I was going to do an extended deconstruction of the wifebeaterbag, but staring at this pic makes me want to dip my face in hydrochloric acid. It is soul sucking, nads kicking, hyper-meta douchey/hottie ultra wrongness.

It is cruel and unusual douchebaggery for a Friday.

So instead of parsing the lexicon for new terms to mock Wifebeaterbag with, I'll...

I'll...

call him a douche.

Yer a douche!

(sigh)

Somehow it didn't help that much.

A little bit. But not that much.

I'm convinced this isn't actual real world hair.

It's a cartoon expression of surprise. You know, like when Linus was shocked by Lucy and his hair went flying in every direction.

Or when Mister Magoo finally realized he was walking on a pylon six hundred feet in the air. That wacky Mister Magoo. Because blind people are funny.

Boing! Gadzooks! Zoiks!

Pack it in, cartoon boy. I'd erase your face with an eraser, then draw in a Garfield.

Kelly from Arizona State makes me want to yell "GO HOME TEAM MASCOT!!" in the hopes she'll get stupid drunk with me at the tailgate party. At which point I would slobber on her shoes like a quadriplegic on Benzidrine.

Fu Man Choad pimps out,
Gwai-Lo Zen whacks on, whacks off.
Blonde Curves, happy pants.

Two pube waterfalls
Four pastoral, fertile mounds
Call Enola Gay

-- bmt

Cartoon babes are hot.
But as sure as the world turns,
With time, their heat cools.

-- boatbutter

Pinkhawked smirkdouche needs
to shave ZZ Man Chu with
chainsaw. Blindfolded.

-- lemon tart

Girl made of plastic
But girl on the right? I will
chew through your boob straps.

-- reservoir douche

Hong Kong Douchey needs
Five-Point Palm Exploding Heart
Save us Black Mambas!

-- Duck Duck Douche

Trust me, you're a douche.

A reader snaps a Footbag in a parking lot, with the following story:

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Friend had his wife run up to this guy in a parking lot......Douchie got scarred & asked why they wanted pic......said from out of state & he looked like the "california kid"......haha
------

Nicely done, anon. That's a serious douche in the wild right there.

And while we're giving shout-outs, a happy Rosh Hashanah to my Jewish readers. L'shanah Tovah! May you be inscribed in the book of non-douchebaggery.

So how many licks does it take to get to the center of a Hottsie Pop?

Looks like the June HCwDB of the Week winner Meet Joe Douche is trying out some new looks for this Fall's douchelympic Event "The 400 Meter Preppy 'Bag Toss."

Although no popped collar on the pink I-Zod? You're losing your fastball, M.J.D.

I would share pizza on Sunset Blvd with sultry Angelina Jolie hottie while licking salt off her lower back when the waitress wasn't looking.

I've always had a thing for Asian chicks.

Ever since Tia Carrere's power chords in Wayne's World, I've been hooked on pho-nics.

Get it? Because "Pho" is a type of Vietnamese beef dish. And pho is from "phonics."

Hah! I'm clever.

As to D.B War, someone seriously needs to Daniel San his ass while Japanese fans chant for "Rocky" and Ivan Drago looks upset. Wait, I think I'm mixing my 1980s "white movie characters triumphing in foreign countries by proving their superiority and turning the locals into proto-Americans" references again.

And, for what it's worth, D-War looks amazing.

Play that funky music, choadwipe.

Shaving one's chin pubes into the "Eye of Providence," that creepy cult-like pyramid with the eyeball on the back of the $1 bill, gets mad Freemason cult props. Now all we need is to fold Washington's face and see if it makes a mushroom.

She is delectable. Like a fine wine. Or a sherpa named Moses.

Perfectly ripened, with a delightful smile that makes transcendental harmonics when gonged. That last sentence sounds like a crude double-entendre, but I meant it simply as poetics as to the spiritual resonance of a nice smile. And boobies I'd like to lather with soap and prepare for the ice age.

A Spanish tamale with extra guacamole. She makes me hungry.

(With apologies to Disney and "Song of the South")

Zip-a-dee-douchebag,
Zip-a-dee-scrote,
My, oh, my, what a smelly old choad.
Plenty of chin pubes,
headin' my way,
Zip-a-dee-doo-douchebag
zip-a-dee-wanker!

With three hotties on his shoulder,
It's the truth, it's boobies.
Everything is boobies boobies.

Zip-a-dee-douchebag,
zip-a-dee-chump
Douchey-ass face pubes, powdered blue pants!

Zip-a-dee-douchebag,
zip-a-dee-tool,
My, oh, my, what a choady ass tool.
Plenty of boobies headin' his way,
Zip-a-dee-douchebag,
Zip-a-dee-total-and-complete-douchebag!

EDIT: Got an immediate email to take the pic down, so instead I'll post the luckiest man on earth.

Is he a 'bag for the display of one hand gesture?

Hott, hott, hott.... hell yes he's a 'bag. Because it's late, they're hott, and I'm sitting on my floor staring at the coffee stain from my Americano from the Coffee Bean.

Mmm... Americanos.

Let me get this straight.

On the left, a slice of spiky haired olive loaf.

On the right, dribbling chin facial pubes like he drank form the msterious mythological Greco-Roman challace, Pornstarpubus Grail.

In the middle, a wholesome Georgia peach with two ginormous fake Georgia peaches.

This choad/hott sandwich combo disturbs on too many levels. Is it early enough to start drinking? And since my hangover is still around well after lunch, can I name it Pedro and ask it to pay rent?

You go with your bad self, Ricky.

Raven Hottie writes in:

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hi, i'm on this website and i don't want too be. and i have no idea how i got on here.
please take it down. thank you.

its bag/not a bag. thanksss!
----

Which I read as:

Hi DB1. I want you.

Then again I could be walking around a lingerie frat party using a broom-stick as a giant phallus substitute. With my underwear showing.

So there's that.

There once was a muscle scrote named Dell,
who smelled like a moldy eggshell,
But his hottie's backside is glorious,
So I'll name it Delores,
And take it to lunch at Taco Bell.

A total mudslide. A jaws crunching 1970s horror film of over tanned skin and oiled simian brow getting loose in the pipelines of New York.

The Gator takes the crown Louisiana Crawfish Po' Boy style.

motherofsquirrelkiller sums up the ass crunches:

Gator aka "well oiled, water resistant leather boots" should win this title bellydown.

Can you imagine what he must be like excecuting the Reptilian "Death Roll"??? That's something I'd love to witness!!! I wonder if his Hottie's hair gets entangled in his wild thrashing and I'm sure anything in the imediate area is toast.

A scary thought indeed, MOSK. montana mandana agrees and makes the always appreciated "V" reference in his smackdown:

His piercing glare, his tanned (aaarrrgggghhhh orange) skin that would make such a lovely pair of boots i would use to stand on the back of his neck all while forcing him to repeat the phrase "In awhile Crocodile" as i administer an E.P.T. on his feathery puffin of hottness.

It brings back a glimpse of the 80's mini-series classic "V" imagine as THE GATOR rips away his fake orange flesh to reveal none other than his reptilian scales much to the dismay of the hot when she realizes soon she will birth Halfalligatorhalfman.

Heh. "V" kicks ass. Almost as much as The Gator's retched hide of scum and tannery.

My only debate was which Gator pic to use. While the subsequent pics featured far more award winning hotties, I had to go with the first. The iconic. Our introduction to reptilian douchitude.

As sadbag puts it:

And the kicker for me is the amount of Scandidouche vibes I get off this action figure. I sense the Swede is strong in this one. And then sadness sets in... why??? Because as we all know the Scandinavians are the proud descendants of Vikings. Vikings hold a high place in the badasses of history. But this is what has become of a cherished bloodline. THIS!

His ancestors weep and I hear their painful moans through the firmament. I see their raging armies surging, and I fear that they will call upon the heavens to rain down all of Ódinn's deadly iron arrows to end the earth once and for all.

Nicely played, sadbag. Any references to Scandavian love goddesses deserves a croc hunting nod of respect. But some were concerned that the Gator didn't feature the obvious douche signifiers like bling and hand gestures. However john von douchemann makes a strong case that such douche manifests would simply detract from the larger "Douche Aura":

The Gator has my vote, two thumbs, and a few random 'bag gestures up. The hottie is bearing my children by way of artificial insemination but I am about to tear up the surrogate agreement.

The Gator's vacant stare and O-Ring are all it takes. A hat tilt or bag gesture would ruin the essence of his genuine homegrown 'baggerie.

Well put, JvD. Now the Qwerty kittens and Douche Gossage also found some spittle flying. It wasn't enough to knock off The Gator, but still enough to warrant mentioning. Like my hangover. As scrunt put it:

I have to go with Qwerty. So what if he hired them. Anyone who walks around with a whisk broom on their head deserves kudos. At least kudos from this website.

I wish I was his left hand.

But this Weekly wasn't a competition so much as a coronation. reservoir douche puts the final stamp on the devastation of the Leather Skin:

Gator, all the way. From his super-intense doucheface, you can tell he's in the process of trying to use a Jedi Douchetrick to hypnotize us all. If the Force weren't so strong with me, I think I'd be shaving my chest and painting myself orange as we speak.

Unfortunately, many others are, R.D.

I'm not ready to concede "Hall of Scrote" just yet, as I think every new choad/hott combo deserves at least a two week waiting period. Well, that's not really true. I've insta-elevated a few. But lets give The Gator some time to adapt to his new role as douchebasador for the site. During which we will continue to mock his aligator skin and uber-douche douche face in as many linguistically creative ways that we can.

Chalk up The Gator for the Weekly and book his ticket in the Monthly.

It's a troubling development in the study of scrotology when douchewanks like Velvet Jones start appearing on the scene.

The personification of early 80s SNL Eddie Murphy sketches just should not be taking place in an irony free reality.

However, a special slice of strawberry cheesecake goes out to whichever designer invented the gravity defying loose boob-cling dress. It has the intoxicating aroma of British fish n' chips and a pint of Guinness.

I would stuff french fries up my nose and stutter while pronouncing "Cathcart Towers Hotel" just for the chance to Wendy her Wandas. And I'm not just making England references because The Gator's a Brit. Or maybe I am.

PIC DELETED

It's tough cleansing the palette after a Black Betty 'Bag hunt, Jabbabag and the genius of the Gator. So I'll slow it down with a 'Bag / Not a 'Bag weigh in.

Fey peace sign making dude with the insect hands probably isn't 'bag, but I would love the lost Olsen Triplet in so many inconvenient ways that I'd be arrested and strung up for treason in Singapore.

Speaking of The Gator, by now we've well established that pumped up 'roidbags are a staple of of douchuous/hottie combos.

But what about large sweaty Jabbabags?

At the opposite end of the spectrum from the quasi homoerotic ab fondling 'roidbag like The Gator, can a Jabbabag still qualify as douche?

I'm kind of doubting it. Looking ridiculous is simply not enough to qualify for 'baggosity. Frankly, it's just hard to work up much of a sweat over this pic.

Wait, bad choice of metaphor.

I'm going to rule out toothpaste tubs from the 'bag canon without further examples of douchebaggery, as their actual power of douche-persuasion is pretty miminal and unthreatening.

While this guy does feature the receding spiked faux-hawk, he looks like my 10th grad math teacher. So I'm going to say, Go in peace, Jabbabag. You're cool with me. And may all your Salacious Crumbs be hotties like Paprika Spice here.

They would pay 20 above premium in Bangladesh for that leather skin tanned and treated. I would pay 50 bucks and my original VHS copy of "Aliens" for the chance to finish Baby Spice's leftover Cobb Salad at the Sizzler.

Ahhh... The Gator.

You bring me such joy.

I could do Gator pics all day. I mean, look at this guy. If he doesn't define the essence of douchebaggery/hottie commingling then my name ain't Nathan Arizona.

Resident HCwDB hottie Black Betty (blonde on the right) went off into the hinterlands of Los Angeles douchebaggery and came back with the following catch:

------
Hello my fellow douchebag haters, so this weekend i took up my precious role as Black Betty Bamalam-a-jam and went Douchebag hunting at a porn party i attended yesterday.

With the help of my very own Waldouche, we mounded through the crowds of sweaty, muscular, arrogant douchebags to spot the most worthy of the 'real douchebags' spots...

Enjoy,

Yours Truly,

Black Betty Bamalam-a-jam
xxxxx
--------

Ahhh... a hottie who not only has the site lingo down but knows how to sort the wheatbags from the chaffbags.

Nicely done, B.B.B! Although hunting for 'bags at a porn party is like hunting for rabbits in, well, a field filled with rabbits. Because my analogies suck.

The 'bag hunting bar has been raised significantly. Let this be a notice to all would-be douche hunters out there. Can you top The Bamalam?

And by top, I mean lick her ankles like a meerkat on codine.

The Gator sez, "You there! Don't forget to scroll down and vote in the HCwDB Weekly!"

Although what he really said was "MEEEEAAARRRGHHHHH," before scratching himself around the armpit area.

I had to sort of extrapolate what he meant from there.

And yes, I think we have a good inkling who's going to win this week's Weekly. And setting himself up for a nice run at the Monthly, too.

Pasty McDouche with the creepy Euro-eyes and late 1990s pubal facial pattern is probably a sous chef. Named Raoul.

Actually I don't know what a sous chef is. But I've been saying it all afternoon.

Come on, say it with me. It's fun. It rolls off the tongue in a gaggle of sss and shhh complimentary phonic resonance.

Sous chef.

Say it again. Sous chef.

Rhymes with douche clef.

Maggie's Irish Eyes are smilin', and her boobies make me want to pass out drunken into that good snow in front of the White Horse Tavern.

So yesterday I went to McDonalds to have lunch.

While I occasionally enjoy an egg McMuffin, I hadn't had a burger there in months. I plunked down my hard earned dollar and bought a double cheeseburger.

What I received from my barely conscious cashier was terrifying. That steaming putrid pile of oozing, possibly conscious, rancid ostridge ass smelled like a Tijuana footlocker. The soggy pale bread, cheese, meat and plastic wrapper had merged electrons, protons and douchetrons into one lukewarm ball of tri-processed lung phlegm.

I took it outside and regarded it in the sunlight.

That 99 cent oozing puddle of yak spew formed one pancake flat circular orb of inedible rat puke. It was an inedible monstrosity that mocked the entire concept of consumption. The entre notion of cash exchange for sustenance in a market based economy. All within one microwave processed plastic semi-organic living art testament to a culture of McRot.

Why bring up my soggy-ass and depressing double cheeseburger from yesterday?

Because Skinny McDoucheburger here reminds me of that cheeseburger. Only 99 cents and I want my money back.

These two Abe Fromans are definitely sausage kings of Chicago.

And by sausage kings, I mean ridiculous 'baglings who need to be leech tortured by 12th Century Vikings.

I'm not sure how well Bikini Sloane's holding up what with four, count 'em four, "shockers" present. Ironic or no, that's some serious douchitude on display.

To quote the maitre d' at Chez Luis, "I weep for the future."

It's not Orange, it's Sunny D.

As to the hotties, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,with a bottle of anything and a glazed donut. To go.

But please sir, for the love of all that is boobie, hold the Sunny D.

In a vice. By the head. Casino style.

Yes kids, it's time for the hottie/douchey Weekly. A time when we sit in collective judgment of the hotness of female boobalicious hottitude and the rank foul choad salads they cohabitate with.

Yes this is the moment when you, the reader, get to weigh in on which category of hott/douche most makes you want to slam your little toe in a walnut cracker and question whether God is just or a mean S.O.B.

So sure, I could ramble on about my drunken musings in the city of Angels. But you don't want to hear my stories of HoHos and Night Train consumption. You want the finalists.

And here they is:

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #1: Qwerty aka The Kitchen Kittens

This pic is like a retrograde 1950s patriarchal sex fantasy by way of a Mad Max beyond Thunderdome rewrite.

A Rooster choad trash 'bag fondling the nethers of a perky faced female of firm assitude and healthy viable womb. While a second hottie does his dishes.

They sure are kooky in Omaha.

Four cheeks of health. One 'fro of douche.

And some lovely faux-wood cabinets. On sale at The Home Depot on I-5 next to the Cracker Barrel.

Megods I would go diving for seashells like a Jamacian spice merchant beheath the flesh-coves off the Cape of Good Ass.

Then I would drink a bottle of Orange Gatorade.

And look to see if anyone drop their chicken and Grey Goose on the floor.

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #2: The Gator


Here's a classic case where the hottie isn't overwhelmingly cute, but the sheer douche-force of the 'bag is so powerful that it can carry the pic to the finals on its back like Jordan in 96.

The Gator is supreme grade-A douchebaggery. He leaks oil on the douche interstate like a broken down Chevy Douchibu.

When selecting an HCwDB of the Week, it's important to also consider whether the pic fundamentally alters the way we create meaning in the simulacrum.

Clearly her oil fingerprints left on his surreal gaping "O-Neck" shirt qualify.

Heck, leather Wrath-of-Khan chest alone qualifies Gator for Finalist status.

The Gator also made a second appearance on the site and was subsequently featured as a "caption this" thread on DListed.com, which actually gave me a credit this time (although "HCWD" instead of "HCWDB" but hey, it's an improvement).

HCwDB of the Week Finalist #3: Douche Gossage


The only thing holding back Douche Gossage from throwing 95 mph douche-heat is the vaguely porny run-way category of the location of the pic.

But in terms of sheer adouchrements, D.G. is a runaway homerun hitting tour de force of douchebaggery.

Dig that 11 Degree Cap Tilt with simu Z-Axis shift. It's like the hat's on a BMW precision motor control 735i douche.

Then there's the bling, the sunglasses, the douche-face, and the tremendous tri-vag facial pubes.

Hottie has fantastic shoulder blades that I'd serve on a bed of rice and with a small dab of mint jelly. And her eyes say, "I want you to suckle my toe-jam and talcum my bottom with baking soda, DB1."

And hey, who am I to say no to talcuming a delicious bottom with baking soda?

So them's your three and three becomes one.

So all you lurkers out there, time to get off the sidelines and cast a vote. Is it Qwerty? The Gossage? Or the Gator?

Which of these three pics most reviles the stomach with its noxious combo of hotness and utter choad? Which deserves Weekly victory and a ticket in next month's Monthly?

Vote, as always, in the comments thread.

What better to compliment a lazy Sunday then a sampling of large succulent nectarines in the presence of the douche-face?

This extra from Francis Ford Coppolla's "Rumble Douche" sneers it up in classic Jersey/Miami 'bag style.

And whatever was once pure and holy and ivory snow within the Cutie is long gone in a haze of 'bag hand gestures and cartoon print bodices.

But that's what happens when you hang with shaved chests and oily cheekbones, Cutie. Heed not the warning of the Bleeth, and pay the toll.

That's it. I'm gettin' a bowl of Frosted Flakes.

Ah, old friend Champagne Superdouchebag. How I missed your choady Trustfundian ways.

Your consistency of stubble is belied only by that snazzy white belt buckle and douched up NASCAR jacket.

Your ability to shuffle the hotties like a deck of boobie cards invokes the closeup trickery of the great Ricky Jay.

I would dress as a surgeon and rub Tantric African tribal oils on your bright eyed hottie's upper elbow area until she hit me in the head with a candlestick.

It's bad enough I've got a hangover the size of a Buick.

But to roll out of bed and regard two juicy juice bouncing balls of hot playing bling hockey in front of a giant wall of checkerboard douchitude, is definitely not helping.

Even worse, this Abtastic Clown is none other than The Kitchen 'Bag, demonstrating an Ab Lobster and Peaches level of douche-move revelatory consistency.

The rage factor is high with this one. Not even Blondie's cool arching back can quench that fire.

You know what they say about smirking guys with large bottles of Grey Goose, right honey?

That they're total and complete douchebags.

Ah yes, the Doggie 'Bag.

Sweeping the nation like Hula Hoops. Like Cabbage Patch Kids. Like Tamagochis. Like The Lohan's fire crotch.

Even Hottie seems revulsed that she's forced to participate in such a ridiculous ritual. Carlos in the background is tucking his shirt in out of pure disgust.

But the 'bag? He loves it like a giant shoulder tatt.

Yup, it's Friday Night.

Your stubbly narrator in all things 10 Degree, the DB1, has said hello to Mr. Johnny Walker. Because I'm upgrading from the usual 'Train tonight.

It's celebratin' time. The book is almost done. The ridiculous L.A. heatwave has passed. And my feet no longer smell like gouda.

Site hottie Black Betty Bamalam has agreed to go 'bag hunting with me to take pics for the site in the near future. She will become our covert agent. And I will post the evidence of the 'baggery we catch.

So get out there, people. If you're a hottie, avoid the 'bag like crotch rash. If you're a 'bag hunter, smack a 'bag and have a drink.

It's Friday, baybees. Life is good.

Whitey McSuburban, note to self: You are not in a gang. If you go to South Central and ask to join a gang, they will laugh in your whitebread suburban hip-hop face.

Please stop disgracing all of us with your obnoxious pseudo-tough "gang" signs and hijacking of the tropes of hip-hop culture. Didn't Elvis steal enough?

Your misappropriation of racial discourse offends cultural theorists the world over. Your tilted cap and pouty lipped douche-face do not speak of a guy who's "bad." They merely speak of a douche who smells like poo.

I would cut off and sautee my lips in garlic and vinegar and serve to a hungry pit bull if I could nibble with my remaining mouth on perky Meadow Soprano hottie's satin thingamabob zig-zaggy thing.

Poppy doesn't have to do much to inspire visions of dipping him in mustard and serving him to one of Maurice Sendak's Wild Things. Just the collar pop, unbuttoned shirt and douche-face.

That's enough. More than enough.

Something about this cutie has that 1920s silent film star look.

Like the long forgotten Hollywood sex symbol of the early 1920s, Clara Bow. Who once said, "The more I see of men, the more I like dogs."

Looks like Clara Bow Hottie likes dogs too.

A reader went 'bag hunting over the Labor Day weekend and caught the following choads:

-----
So challenged by my guy friends who didn't think I had the balls, I enlisted my girlfriend at our first attempt at bag hunting. We were at Seacrets in Ocean City, Maryland over Labor Day weekend.

I think (the first pic) is the best -- facial pubes, hat tilt, hand signals, bad tats and piercings -- but I'm sending you a bunch, and you can decide if any are bag-worthy.

thx,
"fougoo"
-----

Nicely done, fougoo! You've captured two solid stage-2 post-collegiate barhopper 'bags.

'Bag Hunting is a rarified skill that must be approached cautiously and carefully, as 'bags can grow skittish if they feel entrapped.

Of all the permutations across the wide variety of douchey/hottie subsections, this is one I'm having a hard time categorizing.

Is he douche? Of course. There's really no debate. But what brand of douchuousness? What flavor of choad?

Scrubby has the intricately carved facial hair of a pampered persian cat's ass whiskers. He actually sports a pair of pants he cut into shorts complete with dangling pockets, circa 1987.

There's the douchey tats and the retro sunglasses. So how do we classify Scrubby? This middle aged doughboy confounds.

Is he Oldbag? Clownbag? Suburban Choadbag? Or simply playing douche dress-up to entertain his much younger cutie?

The only thing I can safely conclude is that I would ice-fish for frozen mackerel on a mountain lake using only string, chewing gum and my cunning for bait, just for the chance to lick melting snow off Hottie's Subaru that won't start because she forgot to change the oil.

Meat Loaf, Paradise,
by the doucheboard light. Tragic.
silver pasties... hope.

The Undertaker
Now rocks to heavy metal,
and found his groupie.

-- douchey howser, m.d.

Gorgeous Vampiress
Caught by camera mid-kill
I would die with you.

-- arch 'bagger of canturbury

Look no further, scrote:
You're choad and wank nirvana.
Cowgirl boobies... mmm...

-- el maestro

Old Sabbath Rocker
Is about to spend his cash
To pay her daycare

-- clementine of cappadoucha

Okay, I know I keep saying I'm going to avoid covering celebridouche on the site, but it's probably okay if I post this pic from MTV's "The Hills."

Since nobody's heard of these clowns, nobody will ever hear of these clowns, and their douche-nozzle factor is set on overdrive.

In fact the guy who delivers my mail is a bigger celebrity. The old ladies up the street love that guy.

Any wannabe scroterashes douching it up on an MTV reality show in a desperate attempt for D level fame deserve uberdouche status. Then you factor in the tonguebaggery of this pic, and it's like Puck from Real World SF times 1000.

Yes, I just referenced Puck from MTV San Francisco.

Because my MTV references have to go that far back.

The rest of them all faded into some mishmash of Bleethed out hotties named Trashelle and uber-douche Road Rules generics who look like Pod People from Invasion of the Neo-Aryan Body Snatchers Who Look Like Mark McGrath.

And the stereotype token black guy. Who's sweet and cuddly until he gets in a drunken fight with one of the white chicks.

Good times, MTV. Good times.

One of the key givaways of early scrotebaggery developing in a pud is, of course, the tonguebag.

The immediate need upon seeing a camera to demonstrate one's douchey inner monologue for all to see.

Not that you'd have any problems picking this choad out of a poo lineup.

Slender Milkshake Hottie is such premium Ben and Jerry's goodness she even makes the 10 Degree Hat Tilt look whipped cream delicious.

Now that the "Weekly World News" is no longer in business, it will be up to all of us to keep tabs on the mysterious and elusive Bat Boy.

Here's Bat Boy douching it up Menudo style with two Beach Blanket Bingo Cuties that sing the body electric. Note how Bat Boy is making douche hand gesture #06, The "Westside" with the creepiest fingers this side of a Tales from the Crypt.

And what's with the classy Heineken shirt, Bat Boy? Looks like you can't even afford domestic.

But, in the end, nothing says "class" to the hotties like plyboard in the window.

Perhaps Maverick 'Bag isn't really that douchey, other than the puka.

But Brunette can be my wingman any time.

And by wingman I mean pillow pancake that I would masticate like a toothless 19th Century British street urchin who just found a scone.

It was an intense 'baggle royale between four worthy contenders for the Monthly crown, but the back-to-ab-pointing basics and utterly reprehensible douchosity of The Crustacean was too much to overcome.

In an excellent vote, the comments were plentiful and eloquently parsed the hott and the scrote in all four Finalists. But, as il choadrino puts it, The Crustacean takes the crown:

I raise my Peach-tainted finger in a vote for CRUSTACEAN. Mostly because I think he's an ass, but also because his jeans remind me of the dotted-swiss blue dress Nadine Sternberg use to wear in third grade when she'd beat the crap out of me on the playground.

And if you will excuse me, now I must drink.

You're excused, I.C. That ridiculous Puma Armband alone is enough to break up a dedicated A.A. support group and cause them to hit the Glenlivet.

I would love Fruit Stripe Hottie with the rechargeable power of a Prius battery. Her hips are like a sun dappled sunday morning at grandma's house. Her legs comfort like lemonade on a screen covered New Hampshire porch.

As 23 Skidouche puts it:

Crustacean by a mile. My esteemed colleagues have already done a scholarly job deconstructing the myriad reasons why this douche is the clear winner, so there is no need to rehash them here. What I will mention is that

Crusty has assembled an impressive body of work on this site already and has paid his dues on the scrote circuit. This picture here represents the crowning achievement of his douche career, and so in honor of his lifetime of work in the field of scrotology, The Crustacean deserves a a victory in the monthly and a shot at HCwDBotY.

Indeed, I fear you are right, 23. This pic will stay in our colective trauma for many a month. Expect it to do extremely well at the annual The Douchies in December. I expect it to take at least one Pat Cup.

Although the metro-mystery Memphis Choad came in a solid second, with what reader John Edwards terms, his "inflasian" hottie by his side, he found his fans. And by fans I mean participants in the metrosexual vomitorium. The Arch Douche clearly and simply states the case:

“Memphis! Memphis! Memphis!”

So goes the chant that echoes in the night, black and cold and hollow.

Indeed, A.D. And clementine of cappadoucha makes the strong case that we shouldn't overlook the power of dual grease in The Greasers either:

The greasers must recieve my vote. The culmination of the silk, the cock-and-balls marks and the blonde Anne Hathaway damsel in distress is almost too much to tolerate. Mostly, however, it's the choadgobbler on the left with too much product in too much hair, the hint of chin pubes and the thumb-ringed douche gesture. This wad of vaginal mucus' greatest transgression though, is his smug expression.

It seems to say, "Yes, I know that I'm a bumtaking rimjob monkey whose only purpose in life is to be the perpetual wingman, but I get the chubby friends (like me), and if that doesn't work out, my severence package from KFC just kicked in so I can buy myself that inflatable girl I've had my eye on for some time now. Boyeeeee!"

Ultra-fantastic smackdown, C.o.C.

But canadouche sums up what we're all thinking:

A glimpse of "The Crustacean" invokes enough anger to get me to roll myself out of bed and to go down to the local fish mart with a 12 pound sledge hammer and smash any and all crusteceans, but then I pan to the right and see Fruit Sripe Hottie and that beautiful clothing remnant which in some cultures they refer to as a "skirt" and it all goes away.

And right there is the essence of the perfect hottie/douchey contradiction. That Yin/Yang polarity between hot and scrote that drives us crazy with swirling emotions. Hope. Fear. Rage. Revulsion. Arousal.

Give it up to the Crusacean and raise his jersey to the rafters. He's earned a Monthly win, and a ticket to the Douchies in December.

When 'bag hunting the elusive muscle t-shirt choad in the wild, there is one key giveaway that you've spotted one.

It's, uhm, the muscle t-shirt.

Yeah. I guess that was kind of obvious.

But this brings up important theological and scrotological questions. Is wearing a muscle t-shirt, in an of itself, inherently douchuous?

Take Crispy McTall here. He's lined up a gaggle of delicious tasty after-school 19 year old specials.

But his dual 'bag headlock is relatively benign. There's no clear douche-face. Little in the way of bling.

So I put it to you, Greg. 'Bag or not a 'Bag?

Porn-star pubal facial scruff. Annoying tongue. Combo 93 Degree Hat Tilt + the extremely rare Z-Axis Tilt. Jesus bling shirtlessness. Dual bee-glasses hotties in inverted 'bag sandwich formation.

Yup. Time to slap myself in the face with an oven mitt.

Add in the cursed idol from the Brady Bunch hanging like some form of douche missletoe, and Tropical Choadwank makes me want to blend arctic lemmings into a lemming milkshake and feed to a Polar Bear until his satiated growls serve as a sonic blotting out of the memory of this choadputz's existence.

As we consider the hottie/douchey variations and permutations, the scrote/boob combos force us to consider our philosophical human condition itself.

Our culture. Our values.

And boobies.

The great philosopher Thomas Hobbes describes the natural state of the human condition as one of brutality, primitivity and pain. Without societal structure, Hobbes wrote that we would devolve into a state of natural chaos. A 'war of all against all.'

I gaze at tatted up tongue-douche and I think to myself, Hobbes knew what was up.

Oh pumped up sleeve rolled wannabe Pumpy.

You may appropriate the boob grab, but you will never come close to the Master.

For while you possess many of the douchetributes that are used to identify those of your 'baguous ilk, there is something lacking.

Douche Aura.

You may emulate The Pumpy. But you do not yet comprehend the Tao of Scrote.

Keep learning, young one. Keep studying, young Kevin James in "The King of Queens" 'bag.

The ways of the douche are not far off.

There once was a man named The Gator,
Whose favorite expression was "Don't be a Playah Hater."
His leathery chest,
Looked like a skin vest,
And his friends Chip and Chet weren't much straighter.

Ah yes, College.

A time to expand one's mind in the pursuit of knowledge.

A time to grow and find one's self as a person.

A time when ridiculous suburban fratchoads score quality tail the heights of which they will never again come remotely close to scaling.

The imbalance between semi-annoying economics major sophomore frattoads and the 20 year old uber-hott is strong in this one.

I would make a blond/brunette PB&J sandwich, and enjoy with a chocolate YooHoo.

Purg Hottie says, "You there! Don't forget to vote in the HCwDB of the Month contest!" Or at least that's what I'm saying.

I would love her tiny succubus inner neck like a touchy-feely yoga instructor.

She is my Angel of Choadbaggery.

As to the rest of you, votes are still open. Scroll down and cast your vote in the Monthly.

Since we're going with an orange theme today, meet The Gator.

Orange like Gatorade.

Skin leathery like an alligator.

The Gator's shiny schlong-n-balls mark of the 'bag on his forehead confirms what should already be patently obvious.

We are in the presence of uber-douche.

The Gator has no need for hand gestures or bling. No 10 Degree Hat Tilt. No popped collar.

He is a tidal wave of sheer douche psyche. His eyes summon the spirits of global choadbaggery. His greased Khan-like chest overacts like a douched out Shatner.

Behold! The power of scrote.

MILF may or may not be preggers, which makes it awkward for me to suggest my desire to dry hump her feather duster she bought on the Home Shopping Network with three easy payments of $19.95.

That's it.

If fusball playing Bratwurst toads like Pepe here can score four Eurohotties, then I'm moving to Bulgaria and cashing in my chips.

And by chips I mean running up my credit cards until Interpol arrests my ass and deports me.

Facial scruff + fwippy fauxhawk + Bono sunglasses are enough to make me sucker punch an alley cat in the testes.

I do love Scandinavian Marsha Brady twins though. If only for the combinations and permutations in my sick and perverted mind.

Speaking of Euroasafrica, I don't know what language this is in, but HCwDB is getting a ton of traffic and discussion over the past few days from this site.

They sure do speak funny out in non-Americaland, don't they?

In 1733 John Kay invented the Flying Shuttle. It revolutionized cloth and garment production and launched the industrial revolution.

I know this because it was on my 7th Grade history exam.

Now, 274 years later, giant douche-ass mandanas are plentiful and culturally ubiquitous.

I blame you, John Kay. Cursed be your ancestors.

Busty Blue Spinning Jenny is everything I want and dream of in an approachable bar maiden hottie. They had them in the 1730s, serving up Ale. And we have them today, serving up Ale.

God bless the Bar Maidens. Every time one boozes it up in a low cut blue bustier, an angel gets its wings.

Gentlemen.

You are orange.

Last month it was "Hall of Scrote" enshrined winner, The Trainwreck, that Salvador Dali inspired piece of photographic dada art.

This month? Well, that's up to you.

On this muggy, hot-ass Labor Day, the DB1 meditates over iced tea, and presents for you the four weekly winners for your selection and codification.

Four digital examples of a culture gone 'bag. Four visual servings of poo/hott that can make you feel simultaneously aroused and itchily vomitorious.

But I ramble. Because my shirt smells like cat puke. That's what I get for Karaoke last night. So, without further ado, I give you Lord and Lady Douchebags:

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #1: The Greasers


Amateur puds? Wannabe scroads? Perhaps.

But however you slice it, these two product enhanced sweatballs are worthy contenders.

For not only have they corralled a Eurohottie displaying the perfect serving of side-boob, but they're flying standard 'bag sandwich formation with extra-tight dual headbutt.

Toss in the purple silk tie, the thumb ring, and the Peaches Point maneuver, and it's a quality smorgasboard of scrotum salad.

She's a lovely mamita.

They're two sweaty balls of sockdouchery.

Our first entry in the Monthly is a good one. And by good, I mean Labor Day 'baggin'.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #2: The Crustacean

Seafood Tomdouchery tends to go a long way on the site.

There's something about a Miami toolbox imitating a seafaring creature that inspires that extra fifth-gear level of rage.

The Crustacean challenges The Ab Lobster by busting one of the most obnoxious douchebaggy maneuvers in 'bag history.

Pointing. At. His. Abs.

Although the Crustacean needs a perfect Fruit Stripe Hottie to do the pointing for him.

Factor in the puma wristband, the crypto-gay "Goose in Top Gun" sunglasses, and a lineup of four absolutely mouth watering Starburst Fruit Chews (and their friend), and it's a tremendous pic.

Tremendous.

As right now the affect the blond in white and mini-jeans on the left is having on my division sign is impressive. I love her. I propose. I would carry her children to term, then ignore them while blowing my welfare checks on crack and keno.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #3: The Choadmonster


Ask not for whom the douche-face tolls.

It tolls for thee.

On the punchability factor, there really isn't much more that can be said about Choady McMonster here.

You want to hit in the face with a sock filled with rotting salmon.

I want to him in the face with a sock filled with rotting salmon.

So there's that.

His hairy marblized arm looks less real than a carving by Michelangelo. So there's that, too.

Tiny Dancer Hottie in the middle has a delightful Minnesotan smile. The image of Choadmonster attacking is like a still from a 50s horror film starring Beverly Garland.

HCwDB of the Month Finalist #4: Memphis Choad


In terms of isolating the contaminant that is "The Game" losers, teaching men to dandy themselves up like an Emo Oscar Wilde, Memphis Choad is a great example.

Doing magic tricks and dressing like a freak to get laid has to be one of the more punchable strains of the modern 'bag.

Instead of popped collars and 10 Degree Hat tilts, we have country hats and eyeliner.

And then there's Asian perfection, who looks sweet and exotic and delightfully "Othered" by a society steeped in what cultural studies scholar Edward Said critiques as the sexualized imperalism of Westernized "Orientalism."

Or what I like to term "Asian Hottie Booblust."

So them's your four, people.

Since it's Labor Day and most people are getting drunk and eating hot dogs, I will leave voting up through Wednesday.

But get yer votes in. This is important stuff. If we don't crown a hottie/douchey winner, then who will? You? You Lieutenant Weinberg?

Vote, as always, with a Peaches Point in the comments thread.

A lazy Sunday, and the DB1's thoughts drift to his future second ex-wife, the girth of his loins, the prickle of his breyer patch.

Yes I speak of the legendary Purgatory Hottie. That tragic sexy cutie of perfect backside and mouth watering cleavite, caught between heaven/hell in an endless loop of 'bag repetition as seen here, here, here, here, and here.

Yet Purg Hottie remains pure. She remains lovely.

And, tragically, as pictured today, remains in perpetual cycle with the douchewank. Here, passed out shirtless in a limo. While Purg Hottie remains unperturbed.

It's sort of amazing how she remains unaffected by all the douchescrotery in her presence. Maybe she's got douche anti-bodies or something.

I mourn for Purg Hottie's lousy-ass choices of lousy ass. And I long to fondle her inner thighs with chicken grease.

But another Purg Hottie pic is certaintly enough to get me through a Sunday. I may have to give her an honorary place in the Hall of Scrote, simply for the effect on my nethers.

Come on people, get in the Labor Day party spirit!!

Lets hear it for pasty mutant Stay Puft dough-boys from the Planet Genderambiguous busting Doggie 'Bag moves on tasty Spanish cookies.

If this pic don't say Labor Day at HCwDB, then I don't know what does.

But I do know that firm b-cups make Tiny Tim walk again.

Perfect boobies and a rank douchescrote sniffing his own finger.

Good thing it's a three day weekend.